Celebrity news & gossip from the world’s showbiz and glamour magazines (OK!, Hello, National Enquirer and more). We read them so you don’t have to, picking the best bits from the showbiz world’s maw and spitting it back at them. Expect lots of sarcasm.
Says she: “I’m quivering with fear at the thought – but it’s nothing to the daunting battles faced by people with cancer almost daily.”
Not every day. Just almost. And not tomorrow, when their suffering will be given perspective…
It is the Mobo awards do. And the Mirror (“Backstage fright”), says Winehouse has ordered a “vast” rage of food and drink.
But not all of it has been consumed. The Mirror sees bottles of red wine unopened. So too bottles of white. Containers of chicken strew are untouched.
This is worthy of the Mirror’s attention. What of the rebel, the hell-bent rock ‘n’ rocker who leaves so much potential untapped?
An insider tells us: “It was such a shocking and sad sight. The bathroom in her dressing-room smelt really bad.”
The Winehouse career is going down the pan?
“The toilet lid was still open, and, well, how should I put this..It hadn’t been flushed away. The floor was a mess too. It was such a shame to see.”
Might it be that hard-living, hard-drinking Winehouse can’t hack it?
The Star is pictures Winehouse holding a bottle of champagne. Readers with a keen eye will note that the bottle is unopened. Another shot shows Winehouse holding a glass. The lip is angled downwards. The glass is empty.
Are these bottles and the glasses props, part of the Winehouse look? Is the Winehouse glass one of those tricks that contains a potion for bandy that the drinker cannot get at? Is that a novelty bottle of shampoo?
So here is Winehouse in the pub in Camden Town. She’s her own women alright. Although she is with two other women, the Star’s Charli and Amy (even the Star’s hacks have Page 3 stunna names).
Winehouse moves behind the bar. “This is where I belong. Behind the bar,” says she. “I love it.”
And she loves drinking. At least that’s the impression given…
Now further signs of role reversal as the Star reports that David Beckham is to design five outfits for the Spice Girls ahead of their World Your.
Readers learn that “Mel B told him to do it for a giggle”.
But this is no joking matter. Day-vid is serious. While most of us recuperate in front of daytime telly and the fridge, David is browsing the web for fashion ideas.
What price a carrier in fashion for David when he embarked on his mission to take football to the heathen?
What greater price that he would end up telling his wife what to wear and using her as his clothes horse?
David Beckham is a footballer. His career development can be seen in the picture.
White is, of course, the chef unafraid to call mashed potato “potato mousseline” and was never going to take Oliver’s heat without making reply.
“I’d like to see him call me a bully to my face,” says White, a challenge reproduced on the Sun’s front cover.
White is no bully and the thinly veiled threat that he will beat anyone who says otherwise into a mousseline is testament it.
And White will not leave it there. That’s just for starters. Over two pages (“HELL’S BITCHIN’”), White delivers his call to the Celebrity Chef Smackdown.
“Go and win your first Michelin star, Jamie, and then I might take you seriously.” White, admirably, resists all temptation to punctuate his pep talk with “grasshopper”, astutely observing that that would over-egg the pudding, or Jamie.
White has been there and done it. He’s not only on barking terms with stars like uncomplicated comic Jim Davidson and 80s singer Paul Young but remains the youngest chef to have earned three of the coveted Michelin stars.
But Oliver is a star in his own right, a legend in his own lunchtime. But White is unimpressed. He says Oliver’s school dinners campaign was a “cheap publicity stunt”.
And chucks in for good measure: “I’d rather be who I am than fat chef with a drum kit.”
White would, one suspects, grudgingly acknowledge that you can only make something with the ingredients to hand. And if Oliver is a fat chef with a drum kit is because he has not bought a guitar or, say, a saxophone.
White also has words for the Hell’s Kitchen maître d’ Angus Deayton, still seeking a comedic role in a presenting setting.
They did not get on like peas in a pod, nor a Domaine Lafage Muscat Sec 1999 with surf ‘n’ turf. “ITV didn’t want me to batter him,” says White.
Indeed, not. Best stick with the mousseline…
And so it is that in the Sun, Britney is “troubled” to find that her ex-bodyguard has turned against her.
The muscle is Tony Barretto. And his lawyer, Gloria Allred, tells us that her client is “prepared to testify on issues of nudity by Ms Spears, drug use and safety issues involving the children post rehab”.
The children, one Sean Preston and another Jayden James, have not been to rehab. Childhood rehab is not yet en vogue in the Hollywood Hills, although there are rumours of Rehab 101 modules being introduced at some of the starrier schools as part of life preparation class.
The rehab is Britney’s. And the development, we learn, may influence any verdict in the children’s custody as she seeks permanent settlement away from husband K-Ferret.
The Star picks up the story and turns it into a tale of a LESBIAN ROMP”.
A source tells us: “She’s clearly happier in the company of women…She needs to realise it won’t look good in court to be shown to be hanging out in lesbian nightclubs.”
Why this should be we are not told. But we do read that Britney is no longer in the company of one girl, namely her lawyer Ms Laura Wasser who has stepped down as her brief.
But as the Mirror reports on its front page (“Brit bodyguard spills the bean”) and again inside the paper (“THE NUDITY, THE DRUGS..AND THE KIDS AT RISK”), the story is Barretto’s.
Descried by Allred as “a key and secret witness” – Mr Barretto is 25stone and appears less stealth like than a tower block – feels compelled to speak out.
Ms Allred says Barretto has been stung into action because “He is a father of young children himself”.
Ms Spears remains troubled…
BRAD & ANGELINA’S SECRET DEAL!” reports the National Enquirer’s front page. “AFTER PUBLIC BLOW UP.”Fed on a diet of Bradgelina week on week it is no little wonder the public has blown up. Although the feeling at Anorak Towers is that Americans just get bigger until they are forced to take a deep breath and buy still larger shorts.
And what of the secret deal, which the Enquirer has learnt of? Is it that baby number 5 in on the way?
Hardly a secret there. Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie collect children the way football fans collect Panini stickers. And we’d trade two Pax Thiens and a 2005 Zahara for one Shiloh.
If there is any shock then it is in the notion that baby number five (Says Cilla Black: “What’s your name, and where are you from?”) will be homemade.
Right now, the Enquirer might be watching the preamble to that happening as Angelina and Brad are in the bar at the Chicago Peninsular hotel.
She is said to be stroking his arm. He is said to be stroking her arm.
He is drinking a Corona beer. She is drinking Captain Morgan’s rum and coke, possibly from a glass made by Glasses of Maine and poured over ice produced from a Miele freezer from Bob’s House of Freezers.
An eyewitness notes: “At 2am, when the lights came on, they walked out of the bar hand in hand and headed up to their suite.”
The Enquirer says this marked a “new beginning for the pair”. And a new dawn in the age of mankind.
Shiloh is a hard act to follow. But if the Messiah is to have a third coming, and possibly a fourth (it might be twins), we can only pass on our sincerest wishes…
It might be wind, say some. Indeed, if the wind were to change Vicky’s face might stay like this, and what price her brand? But the Star knows. Indeed, it says Her Poshness is “beaming”.
This smile should be everything. Like a Cheshire cat’s grin it should linger in the minds of one and all who gaze upon it. But that dress. That green dress appears as a tribute to Terry Venable’s Christmas Tree formation of Euro ’96.
The Mirror says Victoria is getting ready for Christmas early.
The Mail calls the outfit “lurid”. “Cowabunga… Posh turns turtle,” says the headline. La Beckham is doing a passable impression of a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle.
A turtle, lest it not go unreported, that smiles.
But to our tutored mind the dress looks like Posh has been covered in a swathe of green Post It notes.
Perhaps on each flap there is an instruction, or just the same instruction repeated many times over, words that Posh should consult in times of anxiety: “Open mouth. Curl lips. Bare teeth.”
As the Star reports (“SIMON BIDS TO SAVE BRITNEY”), the man with teeth whiter than Mel Gibson’s tan line says Britney can appear on his hit TV show American Idol.
“Sure,” says Cowell, “she can come on American Idol – as a contestant.
We at Anorak embrace the offer. Indeed, we would like the proposal to go further and for the entertainment industry to take a leaf from El Al’s book.
Granted, the Israeli airline is more interested in spotting potential terrorists intent on blowing up one of its planes than finding tomorrow’s Gareth Gates, but the airline operates a policy whereby security staff are tapped on the shoulder and invited to board a flight.
The judges of who is fit and proper to fly are, with no prior warning, placed among the riffraff. This keeps them vigilant.
(In an interesting aside, the Star reports that Muhammed Abdel-Al, leader of Palestinian terror group, the Popular Resistance Committees, says “If I meet those whores I will have the honour to be the first one to cut the heads off Madonna and Britney Spears if they keep spreading satanic culture against Islam.” Everyone’s a critic.)
And so to American Idol and all manner of reality TV talent shows. The established acts that pass judgement on the unsung talent, such as Paula Abdul (American Idol) and Danni Minogue (X Factor), are invited at random to see if they can cut it.
At a moment’s notice they are handed a song sheet and invited to sing for their careers.
Can Britney do Britney better than one of her fans?
Or will she crash and burn..?
It must be a Thursday. And it must be the Sun, which operates as Her Poshness’s diarist.
In times to come, Posh will be able to flick through past copies of the Sun and know what she was doing on any given day.
And on Thursday September 13 2007 she was wearing a red dress. At least she was the night before (Wednesday September 12) when she arrived for a meal at New York’s Cipriani restaurant.
(Note: the Mirror disputes the claim by saying the dress is orange. But the sun knows.)
Between bites of food, Posh tells the paper: “I got in very late last night but the first thing I did in the morning was ring home and check in on my family, making sure everyone has their homework done and everyone’s gone to school.”
And the kids and Day-vid can see what mummy’s been up to by reading the Sun…
Britney should wear pants, and to maximize impact she, or her stylist, should ensure that they are black, followed by pink, white a navy blue.
Britney may care to wear all four colours as well as her signature orange at once and add a sense of mystique to her jaded act.
And Britney is as tired as she is emotional. As the Sun reports in “Britney barmy barnet barney”, Spears was so unhappy with her hair for her recent MTV showing that she was handed prescription drugs to calm down.
A source says: “Britney took enough to floor an elephant. They calmed her down – but were clearly too effective.”
Next time Britney may be forced to take still more drastic action and shave her hair or wear a wig.
It is clear that Spears needs help. But, as the Star reports, she is finding it hard to come by.
The paper reports that “troubled “Britney is fining it tricky to secure a nanny because of her “sleazy lesbian lust”.
If anyone is to leer at the help it should be the man of the house. But with K-Ferret estranged, Britney is being forced to play the role of bother mom and pop.
It is she who must wear the pants…
Happily, what Italy lacks in frozen fish and Boozie Brownies, it tries to make up for in weddings. And OK! invites us to experience the thrills and no few spills from Kerry’s official wedding to Mark Croft.
Can it be only a few months since Katona married Mark on St Valentine’s Day in a modern function room on the Scottish borders?
It can be. That do ended months of “feverish anticipation”. “This is it,” said Kerry back then. “I don’t know how I lived without Mark before. He does everything for me. We’ve not spent a single day apart. And I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with him.”
Now Kerry gets to spend another lifetime with the lovely Mark as she marries to him in Italy.
“I’m so excited because it’s all a big surprise,” says Kerry, who may have sensed something was up when the OK! marriage contract was slipped beneath her skirts.
So here we are on the shores of Lake Orta. We’re at the Villa Crespi. No, not Cispsy, as in Thin and Crispy. Crespi, as in Villa Crepsi, an “extraordinary hotel dating back to the 1930s”.
The guests are seated in a Moorish colonnade. Mark is waiting for her beloved. He nips out for few sips of beer. OK! says this is to calm his nerves.
And a mere 45 minutes late, Kerry appears on the arm of her “good friend and PR guru Max Clifford”.
How terrific of Max not to spill the beans and ruin Mark’s surprise wedding that saw him hire his wife a Philip Armstrong strapless gown and complementary white rose.
“I dos” are exchanged. And Kerry says: “Mark, when we became mates, I treasured our friendship – and the Xbox of course!” (Cue laugher and the sound of aliens being zapped.)
There are then tears. The couple sign the register. Someone presses play on the beat box and Nessun Dorma is played. And so to the wedding breakfast. It is 7pm.
Guests are seated. The Wayne Allen sings Always And Forever over a starter of Sicilian prawns with celeriac puree. Encore. And guests tuck into steak and chips.
And at midnight – incredible, we know – it is Kerry birthday. She turns 27. More tears. Everyone sings happy birthday.
And OK! wonders. What about of those rumours of Kerry’s dalliance round the back of Tesco’s with a youth? Says Mark: “Who would believe the face of Iceland would go with some 19-year-old weakling.”
Not we. Not Magnus Magnusson. Not Mark…
A private consultation with our dear friend Ann Summers reveals more about the Purple Penetrator (ask for it by name).
Ms Summers advises that the phallus has an “adjustable waist and back strap to fit all sizes”. Features include a “vibrating bullet”, “multispeed battery box” and “clip”.
(If only our forces in Iraq were to well equipped.)
This is “MADGE’S TOY JOY.” And it is one she seems keen for each of us to experience.
And not least to all husband Guy Ritchie, whose 39th birthday she has been celebrating in Claridge’s hotel.
A “hotel guest” tells the paper: “Maybe she just wanted to ram home the point that she is the boss in their relationship.”
Batteries not included.
But a flick of the page and readers are affronted not with Her Poshness’s appendages but “Peta, 20, Essex”. Peta would rather go nearly naked than wear fur. She tells us how wonderful it is that a hard-up family has won £8.5million on the Lotto.
Says Peta: “This is exactly what the game is all about – it really makes you think it could be me.”
The game is not football, but the Lotto. And Peta dreams not of being a Wag and so gaining access to untold riches, but of winning the Lottery.
But enough of Peta. We want to know what’s become of our Vicky?
It is only on the Sun’s Page 21 that we get to see Sticky Vicky. In “TWO POSH”, reader learn that Vicky has worn not one but TWO dresses on ONE day.
The Mirror trumps the Sun and does position this happening on Page 3. That Vicky should cut down on her dress intake is admirable and worthy of our support.
The Mirror shows that Vicky’s dress number one is a £2,000 Vintage Herge Leger dress. It’s purple with a criss-cross grey top, a design popular with the Godolphin racing stable.
Dress number 2 is an Oscar de la Renta creation. It costs £3,450. As one observer writes: “Her dress would also look better on the floor, with a coffee table in the middle of it and two loveseats flanking it.”
David and their kids are not in the shot but are thought to be right behind Posh’s efforts…
The Mirror says Her Poshness is in New York for Fashion Week.
She is also wearing “her trademark oversized sunglasses” that cover the greater part of her face.
For anyone who wants to experience the Posh magic up close and personal, the Express says Vicky is auditioning for a “plummy-voiced male nanny”.
Says Vicky: “I watched the film Vin Diesel started in as a male nanny [The Pacifier] and just loved it and thought that men can be just as good as a nanny as women.”
Indeed, what are the films but a fly-on-the-wall docu-drama of everyday Los Angeles life?
Some would go further and say a father can be just as good as a mother at raising their children. And with Day-vid hardly kicking ball these days, he’d be wise to consider a career away from football.
“While I love it here in the States,” says Vicky, “we are not Americans and I want my boys to keep their British accents and roots. It would be unthinkable for them to lose it.”
In which case we urge Vicky to reconsider and hire a man with a reedy voice or else urge the manny to inhale copious amounts of helium and learn how to roast a kee-barb…
But remaining in the limelight is no easy thing. To do so Britney needs a new talent.
If music is no longer her thing, much less dancing, she needs to: be available and knickerless (check), have children (check), juggle her life with her children, literally (check), do something with her hair, such as put it in a paper bag (check), go into rehab (check).
Having trod fame’s stepping stones, Spears’ options are dwindling. She can now either a) date Pete Doherty (possibly meeting him in rehab); b) become a UN goodwill ambassador; c) adopt a child; d) go to prison; or d) put on weight.
As the Sun shows on its front page, Spears has opted for ‘d’.
In “Brit is the Pits” the paper looks on a Spears appears at the MTV Awards in Las Vegas.
We already know that Spears cannot dance or sing all that well, points she was keen to confirm to an audience of millions.
She is pictured stumbling into a man who is gazing at her tummy.
In the Star, which has two pages dedicated to Spears’ uselessness, another dancer is placing a hand over the former singer/dancer’s midriff in the manner of an expectant father.
But Britney is not pregnant, news in itself. This is just “BRITNEY’S TUM-BACK” (Mirror). The paper talks of “flab”. The Mail sees a “paunch” and weight on her hips.
Success for Britney. She can now balloon to massive dimensions. And then, as is the way of such things, she will lose the weight in a TV spectacular.
The press will then be free to talk about Spears’s yo-yoing weight and create news as she eats a lump of fat or doesn’t…
Interestingly, 12 years is no time at all, and if you wait long enough your wardrobe will come en vogue.
But we demur to the Mirror’s central point and see Her Poshness stood before a mirror applying lipstick to her lips, which for ease of identification Posh pushes forward and apart.
Unavoidably, Posh has a new bob hairstyle (circa 1995). Her acrylic nails are long gone and her fake back has made way for a natural “Californian glow” ™.
Vicky is said to be perfecting her look in accordance with her book The Extra Half Inch (see lips).
Writes Vicky: “In the last edition of the book I said I was wary of tops with horizontal stripes. But I couldn’t resist that gorgeous striped dress for the cover shoot.”
The dress may or may not be second-hand, or vintage as it is known among the cognoscenti. Without the benefit of a sniff, we can be uncertain if this is the same dress that was once sported as a top by Terry Fenwick in his Queen’s Park Rangers pomp.
More to follow…
Jamie is in full political bent. Tony Blair’s administration did not just spawn weapons of mass destruction, Leo Blair and a spiritual reawakening among Cliff Richard fans. It coincided with the rise of Jamie Oliver.
Oliver met with Tony, and you can hear the former leader’s influence in Jamie’s outline for the future of the country.
As Oliver tells readers: “I always knew School Dinners would take ten years to come to fruition so it doesn’t bother me – I know it will come good.”
What doesn’t bother Jamie is that many children don’t like school dinners all that much, and prefer to gain sustenance form outside catering facilities.
But it is the ten year plan that stands out. Readers may recall Tony’s own ten-year plan for an integrated transport policy. That began in 1997 and comes to fruition on December 31 this year when Reading station gets a new replacement bus service to Newbury and the Wiltshire hinterlands.
Lifted by this success, Oliver is moving into education. Or education, education, education – a starter, main and pudding of a policy.
Oliver thinks a class talking about “life skills, common sense and cooking” should be in the syllabus.
“I’m concerned if we don’t get the classroom stuff done as well as the school dinners we will be f***** in 20 years time – just like America is now – a health nightmare. We are on the cusp of an epidemic, it really is that serious.”
With a nod to William Hague, Jamie says “it should be about common sense”.
Jamie is cultivating cross-party support. “Gordon, please,” says Jamie, “you know it makes sense.”
The doom-mongers at LibDem headquarters say that since Jamie started his School Dinners campaign around 400,000 children have shunned the service. Can they be brought on message?
For now, Jamie feels “good about what I did”.
Jamie says he went to Soweto, to an orphanage for Aids children. It was “incredibly emotional”. Using carrot, celery, mince meat and onions, a woman made a stew better than any Jamie has witnessed being made in England in two years.
The massage is clear: we should eat like they do in Soweto. Choice is off. If it’s not on the menu, we don’t do it. End of.
And so to the Jamie O-level. Take a dash of history, a knob of geography, a pinch of salt and a spritz of something special.
Et voila! A vision…
“Everything’s fine,” Chanelle reassures a worried public.
“IS IT COZ I IS BLACK?” The headline is used to illustrate a picture to Charley Itchea pointing finger at a policeman’s stab vest.
She was arrested after a “foul-mouthed rant”.
Charley is with her sister Jade and someone who answers to the name CeCe.
Jordan is driving a silver mini. She runs a red light at a set to temporary lights in Loughton, Essex.
The girls arrive at the bar. They girls have a drink. The girls leave the local bar. They drive for 50 yards. A police car follows. The police pull the car over.
“This is f***ing racist,” says Charley… It’s a f***ing disgrace.”
She offers that “every policeman in Loughton is racist”. And: This would not happen where I’m from.” Good to hear that the police in Charley’s south London manor are not racist, at last not all of them.
In any case, Loughton is a “sh*thole,” says Charley in her travelogue.
She concludes her Essex meet-and-greet with the time honoured: “Don’t you know who I am?”
Carole is to appear on Kent’s Radio Invicta. “We think her humour and her intelligence would make her a really good presenter,” says a spokesman.
“I’ve been blessed with so many marvellous opportunities thanks to the Star,” says Carole.
As the Star announces via its front page: “BIG BRO 8 STAR SIGNS ON DOLE.”
“I’m totally skint,” says the reality TV icon.
Turning the page readers learn that the Big Bother benefits scrounger is Carole Vincent. “I’m now more skin than before,” says Carole.
How different it all seemed when Carole entered the Big Brother house back in May. Her catchphrase, “If you want an argument, I’m the f****** argument!”, was all set to be the nation’s number one pre-recorded prank call and ringtone.
But we should have realised Carole was unlucky when we learnt that she operated as an unemployed sexual health worker from East London.
How was this possible? Old Mr Anorak, no stranger to matters of sexual illness, scoffed at hearing that and regaled the Anorak typing pool with tales of the time he brought his Thai Ladies’ ping-pong team to the Hackney Downs baths.
Carole says he wants to produce sex education videos. This may necessitate Carole wearing a bra and knickers set in the mode of a more successful Big Brother product.
And demanding money with menaces…
It seems that children don’t all like eating polenta and coucous and like to eat crisps, chips and foot-long chocolate bars.
Says Oliver: “If the kids won’t come to you, take the food to the kids with satellite kitchens that can go in the playground.”
These are known in the TV business as carting vans and to late-night drinkers as the last resort.
Oliver is right, of course. In this fair and free land the kids should be locked up and made to eat what is handed to them in a Government-sanctioned canteen on pain of starvation.
Some will try to escape. And being so very thin they may well wriggle out between the bars.
But they won’t get far.
The idea is being considered in Denbighshire, North Wales, where the local Welsh nationalists have been informed that all sweet shops and takeaways are owned by English barons.
They are being firebombed as we write…
Now rid of her Big Brother pilchard suit and fraying cheese-wire thong, the show’s Chanelle Hayes is exploring the possibilities of knickers, bras and their many combinations and variants.
Today Chanelle has opted to appear on the Star’s cover page clad in a pair of back lacy knickers and a bra that she has pulled down and tucked into her fishnet stockings.
There is every reason to believe Chanelle’s time in Big Brother captivity has altered her perceptions and she is no longer like the rest of us.
Tuck your vest into your Y-fronts by all means, but bra into long socks gives cause for worry.
Undoubtedly the psychologists that agonised over Chanelle’s mental health on Big Brother On The Couch are shaking their heads and making copious notes about Chanelle’s abandonment issues.
And the Star seems to be feeding that mania as it announces: “CHANELLE MY S&M PLANS FOR ZIGGY.”
Of course, the legend should read “CHANELLE MY M&S PLANS FOR ZIGGY” and feature Chanelle is product placement pose for the country’s premier supplier of undergarments.
But we will not criticise, get our knickers in a twist. We only wish Chanelle every success with her nascent career and look forward to seeing her in all manner of underwear in the near future…
The Enquirer is there with the truth and hears the actor yell: “I killed Princess Diana!”
No, not really. That was just our guess. Indeed a quick survey of the Anorak typing pool threw up suicide bed suggestions “Oprah smells of cats!”, “Let’s nuke Canada” and “Elton…that you?”
The truth is no less sensational as the Enquirer hears Wilson scream: “I want to die!”
The Enquirer hears all. But the irony is that Wilson was suicidal because – get his – he felt so alone and had no lover in his life.
We join the action as Andrew Wilson, Owen’s older brother, finds the actor “bloody and incoherent” at his Santa Monica home.
A source says that after an hour Andrew called the emergency services. The medics arrived. And Owen gave full throat to the tagline “I want to die”.
But even the stars cannot get all they want all the time and the medics inserted a saline drip in the Owen body and staved off his demise for a later date.
Owen Wilson would live. He would start life afresh. He would be Owen II: The Rehab.
Working title ‘My girlfriend won’t take me back”, starring Kate Hudson…
Looking like a cross between Bette Midler (when thin) and Alma Cogan (when alive), Winehouse is met by the line: “Lots of people talk about your drinking…”
“Yes,” replies Winehouse, “bored people.”
Instead of that boring chat, Winehouse tells us that when she goes “training” she is “lovely to be around”.
Training for popstars, one imagines, consists of putting in the hard yards between bars and drug dens. But Winehouse is a rebel of her age and for her training means going to the gym. To exercise.
“But then there’s the other days like I had to go to work and I said to my manager’s assistant: ‘Can you get me some mini Jack Daniel’s please, I just want three or four then I’ll be sweet as a nut.’”
Not the litre bottle? Right… Can we talk about..?
“I wasn’t even crying, I was like: ‘Listen, if you want to have a nice day, please got me some alcohol.’ By two bottles done I was like yes!”
Back to your life. There was the reha..
“I’ve had phases in my life where I wake up and all I want to do is drink alcohol, but that was…”
But aside from the drinking there’s…
“Normal people spend time thinking, what am I going to do with my life? I spend time drinking.”
And talking about drinking…
No time to waste. Fame’s clock counts down not up, ending not with the sound of detonating hopes and smashed dreams but silence as the phone stops ringing and a muffled yawn.
The minutes are ticking by and here are Ziggy and Chanelle tying the knot.
OK! is there to see all. It invites us inside their “DREAM CASTLE WEDDING”.
Ziggy is dressed as all OK! grooms must be in white, how one imagines the Pillsbury Doughboy would dress for his big day in court.
To his right sits Chanelle. Like her idol Victoria Beckham, Chanelle is sat on a throne. It might be the very throne Her Poshness sat upon.
Inside the castle and Ziggy and Chanelle are sharing an intimate moment. He is pushing his nose into her right eye. She is looking enraptured.
Then they are in the garden, reprising the moment when Day-vid dressed in Little Jimmy Osmond’s cast offs and went down on both knees.
Chanelle then puts on a tiara that seems to be made from the wire from atop the champagne cork.
They cut a cake with a sword. The blade looks rusty. As do the couple who though sat by an altar, and Ziggy is reading a prayer book, fail to actually marry.
And we realise that what we are watching is not the wedding of Chanelle and Ziggy but a visual echo from Posh and Becks’ prototype do.
And now the couple are crossing a bridge in New York…
Thankfully, Lisa Marie Presley does not work alone. Elvis’s fans help to keep the legend alive by oozing their bloated bodies into white trouser suits with rhinestone batwings and sweating under the lights of the Balti Curry Inn, Surbiton.
Few depart from the proscribed Elvis look, not daring to portray Elvis in his thinner years lest they appear guilty of heresy or going off-brand.
So it understandable Lisa Marie is “livid” that her father’s memory is being sullied.
As the Enquirer reports, Elvis and his pelvis are being employed to sell erectile dysfunction medication.
The mind boggles to suppose any Elvis fan needs such potions. The opening refrain to Good Rockin’ Tonight is thought to have created more human life than the entire Tommy Steele back catalogue and Dr Robert Winston combined.
But times move. And now Viva Las Vegas has been mutilated to Viva Viagra.
That this outrage should coincide with the 30th anniversary of Elvis’ death in a Paris tunnel is too bad. That it should coincide with his duet with daughter Lisa is shameful.
Lisa’s close harmony rendering of In The Ghetto, with her father in animatronic support, is both tasteful and what Elvis would have wanted.
If Elvis were alive he’d be 72 and able to stick up for himself…